


A Heart Will Always Stay

by lacking



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:44:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacking/pseuds/lacking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It would have been easier had he gone away with Gandalf after the battle, before the hollow place Bag End left inside him was filled with something new.</em>
</p><p>After weathering out the winter months in the mountain, Bilbo's stay in Erebor draws to an end. But as his departing date creeps closer, he begins reflecting back over the past year, contemplating the meaning of 'home' and where he truly wants to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heart Will Always Stay

On the morning of Bilbo’s twelfth birthday he gifted Grigory Moss a dozen lavender biscuits wrapped in brown paper. They were huddled next to each other in Bilbo’s own little hideaway, an open pocket of grass resting within a cluster of his mother’s blue-blossomed hydrangeas, sitting so close their elbows or knees would knock together whenever one of them moved. 

Grigory looked down at the package, corkscrew curls falling over his eyes as he drew his bottom lip in between his charmingly crooked teeth. Bilbo had kissed him, once, pushed himself up onto the tips of his toes and touched his lips to the warm apple of his cheek as they said goodbye for the day. Grigory had jumped, had touched a hand to his own face and smiled, slow and shy.

Bilbo had hoped for a similar reaction while baking the cookies the night before, but instead Grigory grew pale, his mouth edging downwards at the corners as he pulled in a deep, shuddering breath. He pushed the gift away, back into Bilbo’s empty arms.

“My parents said we can’t be friends anymore,” he mumbled. 

Bilbo stared, uncomprehending. “But… but why not?”

“They say you’re—that you’re a nice enough young hobbit and that they like your father very much but you—you’re just—you’re too peculiar, Bilbo.”

Grigory looked away, his face flushed and eyes bright, shaking his head when Bilbo spoke his name. 

Bilbo already knew he was different from the rest of the children. He knew that his teachers didn’t like him and that when he came home from exploring hobbits heading out to market would shake their heads and tut at his dirty clothes. He knew the other boys and girls whispered about him behind his back, that they always stopped playing their games whenever Bilbo approached. He knew that sometimes he talked too much, that he was loud and that he still argued with his elders even after being told it was impolite.

Bilbo knew these things, but had never felt bad about them before, had believed his mother when she told him he was fine just as he was. But sitting there on the damp grass, watching as Girgory disappeared between the shrubs without so much as a glance back, Bilbo began to wonder if his mother had been wrong, if she lied to him.

The cookies were crumbled up and fed to the crows, the paper crushed into a ball and stashed away in a drawer next to Bilbo’s bed. He told his parents that Grigory liked his present very much, and if they noticed over the following weeks that Bilbo’s friend had stopped visiting, they were kind enough to say little of it.

But they did question why Bilbo had suddenly ceased exploring, why he developed a new habit of cutting himself off mid-sentence, why his teachers were reporting that he’d grown appropriately quiet in class. Bilbo shrugged and told them he wasn’t so interested in the forest anymore, that he had changed his mind, that he had nothing to say. 

 

— 

 

Bilbo stands at the base of the mountain, patting the sweat from his brow with a wrinkled handkerchief. He peers out at the empty stretch of the horizon from beneath the brim of a straw hat, wondering what it might be like to travel onward, to veer off towards the Iron Hills or even venture out in a straight line atop the back of a hale pony, moving past the point where his dusty maps once ended. He knows well enough what lies behind, after all. On the opposite side of the mountain Dale rises anew as Laketown sinks further and further down into the depths. Mirkwood has opened its gates for the first time in a decade, offering trade and supplies to the Men and Dwarves alike. And then there is Beorn’s marvelous house, the Carrock and Rivendell and Bree. The Shire remains safely tucked away far to the east, untouched by the world resting just outside its borders. 

“Bilbo!”

Bilbo waves a hand behind himself at the call, taking a final gulp from his water-skin. A splash of liquid spills over his lip and dribbles down his chin, and he drags the back of his wrist along his jaw as he turns towards the others, smiling at his own audacious lack of manners. 

“What are you grinning about?” Gloin asks, flicking at the brim of Bilbo’s hat once he steps beneath the overhang and into the stables. “And take that off.”

“Bard’s daughter gave it to me.”

“That doesn’t make it look any less ridiculous,” Nori chirps as he passes by, carrying a long wooden beam over his shoulder. Dori follows behind, supporting the opposite end, and wrinkles his nose at the back of his brother’s head.

Bilbo scoffs and adjusts his hat, pulling it down over the pointed tips of his ears, flatting his curls. “You’re only jealous it wouldn’t fit over your hair.”

Dori laughs, perhaps a tad more loudly than what’s strictly necessary. Nori’s bats his eyes, his mouth twisting downwards into a mock pout before he continues on his way with a hop to his step. 

“Can you hold this?” Gloin asks, passing Bilbo a wooden slat that’s nearly as tall as he is. 

Construction on the stables has been pushed back again and again, as always there’s been a new crisis to arise, another part of the mountain more in need of builders’ attention. But now Dain has promised his cousin two-dozen ponies and a pack of trained hunting dogs at a discounted price, and Thorin is determined to have the animals on their way to the mountain before the end of the month. 

Gloin sticks out his hand and Bilbo passes off the slat, catching sight of Thorin from beneath the sanded edge. He’s crouched over a worktable that’s been set up on the grass, unfolding a scrap of parchment and attempting to smooth out the folds marring his design plans. It’s been a long while since Bilbo has seen Thorin venture out into the public eye without a crown upon his brow, bare of his fine clothes and heavy furs. He’s heading the task himself, no doubt ignoring the protesting groans of his entire counsel, not wanting to stretch the builder’s guild any thinner than it already is. It took less than a day for news of the project to spread, and before the moon had risen nearly the entire Company had already volunteered to help.

Work continues on at a steady pace until something is revealed to be wrong with the design for the troth Gloin is building. The bottom panel is meant to slot in smoothly but ends up wedged between the two outer pieces, becoming stuck at an angle when Gloin tries to slide it into place.

“It should fit,” Thorin says when he comes to investigate. His hair is tied back and away from his face, twisted into a messy knot that sits at the base of his neck. Sweat gleams at the dip of his throat and upon his brow, dampening his beard, and Bilbo finds his profile very difficult to look away from.

“It doesn’t,” Gloin says flatly, shrugging when Thorin narrows his eyes at him. “That’s what we get for letting the toymaker design it.”

“Oi!” Bofur is nowhere to be seen but his voice rings out clearly through the air. Bilbo scans the stables, briefly catching sight of his jaunty cap peeking out from behind one of the low standing walls.

“You’re sure you didn’t cut it wrong?” Bilbo asks, feeling the need to come to his friend’s aid. Gloin doesn’t even bother responding, puffing out his chest as his face grows an even darker shade of red than his beard. In truth Bilbo thinks Gloin did make a miscalculation. He had been talking about Gimli while finishing the measurements, telling the proud tale of well his son had taken to his new battle axe. 

“Have you tried hammering it in?” Kili asks, peeking around Thorin’s broad shoulder, his brother tagging along at his side. 

Gloin says, “And break it?”

“It’s thick,” Fili points out. “Might hold.”

“I’ll do it!” Kili steps forward, his smile flashing as snatches up a spare tool belt. He makes a long show of stretching his neck from side to side, rolling back his shoulders and flexing his fingers as he lines up his shot. Bilbo feigns a wide yawn in countermeasure to his antics, pleased at the laughter it draws from Nori and Fili, the quick smile that touches Thorin’s mouth. 

Kili brings the hammer down hard at the corner of the plank, evening out the crooked edge but failing to knock it any further down even after a second blow.

“Well… we’re certainty not getting it out now,” he says, pressing down on it with his bare palm. The wood doesn’t so much as creak. 

Thorin sighs, glancing up at the ceiling before gently brushing Kili aside. Without a word of warning he steps up onto the ledge of the troth, dropping a hand to Gloin’s shoulder for balance. He raises his knee high before bringing his foot down hard over the uneven slat of wood, pounding it into place with three solid stomps.

A long moment of silence follows, broken only when Bilbo clears his throat.

“My, my,” he says. “The refined skills of the dwarves are rather on display here today.”

Fili and Kili both grin widely at Bilbo from behind their uncle’s back. Thorin blows a few wispy strands of hair away of his face, offering Bilbo a flat look as he steps down from his perch.

“Am I to take your statement as jest, Master Baggins?”

Not so long ago Bilbo would not have realized Thorin was only teasing, wouldn’t have understood what the flash of light behind his eyes meant, the quick tilt of his head. But he knows Thorin better, now, knows his dry sense of humour and his subtle tells, knows that he likes bickering with Bilbo over nothing and spurring him on when he starts to get lippy.

“No, no, I quite mean it,” Bilbo says, feeling bolder with each passing moment as the boys being snickering. “I never thought the wonders of dwarven craftsmanship could exceed what I observed in your mines, but truly, I am privileged to witness—”

Thorin plucks the hat off Bilbo’s head, turns and walks away. Bilbo sputters, cutting his speech sort as he hurries after, ignoring the rising laugher from his companions. Thorin switches hands when Bilbo tries to take his hat back, stretching his arms high above his head as he mimics Bilbo’s previous yawn. 

“You’re terrible!” Bilbo chides, shaking a finger in his face. “I’ll have you know I am very apt to burn in this weather!”

Thorin snorts, casting him a sidelong smile. “It’s springtime, Bilbo.”

“I’m a hobbit, I’ll have you remember. You once would have been quick to agree that we’re a very delicate sort of people.”

“Oh, indeed.” Thorin jaw clenches tight before relaxing, a sign that he’s trying not to laugh. He gingerly places the hat back on Bilbo’s head as if worried the weight of it may snap his neck. Bilbo wrinkles his nose and pokes Thorin in the side, just above his hip where he knows the dwarf is ticklish.

“You used to have me fooled, you know,” he says.

“Hm?”

“Acting like you were some serious and somber noble when you first stepped through my door. It’s quite clear now where Fili and Kili learned all their mischievous behavior.”

They break for lunch together, joining the rest of the Company and crew already sprawled out on the grass. Sandwiches and scones are brought down along with a bushel of small, sweet apples, and Bilbo happily curls his toes into the dirt as he eats, settling next to Ori and chatting to him about the updates being made to the central library. The air around them is filled with the buzz of conversation and familiar voices, broken through only by the occasional shout or peal of bawdy laughter.

The day is April thirteenth. In two weeks time a celebration is to be held, commemorating the day the Company set out on their quest to reclaim Erebor. The following morning is when Bilbo Baggins will start for home. 

 

— 

 

“Is that really all you miss?”

Bilbo looked up from the fire, lifting his stick out of reach of the licking flames to keep his supper from burning. He suspected the animal skewered on the end of the branch in his hands was a squirrel, but decided it was wiser not to ask for clarification. Gandalf had already gone on ahead, intending to speak with their next host before presenting the Company, and Bilbo wondered ruefully what his dinner that night consisted of.

“Sorry?” he said.

Kili dropped his bedroll next Bilbo’s curled leg, flopping down on top of it in a heap. “Before, you said you just missed your books and your chair.”

“And my garden.” Bilbo sighed, thinking wistfully of his prized tomatoes, the little cluster of herbs he kept in a window box hanging just outside his kitchen. 

“What about your family?”

“Kili.” Thorin’s voice rang out clearly from where he sat at the edge of the fire, his face shadowed, darkness hiding the gash across his nose, the torn corner of his mouth. “Let Master Baggins alone.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bilbo said, wriggling atop his log, unsure what to make of Thorin’s intervention. A friendly gesture, or yet another sign he thought Bilbo incompetent, too meek to speak out for himself? “My parents are dead. And—oh, well, there’s Prim, of course, lovely young lass, but I’m not very close to my other relatives.”

“What about friends?” Kili asked.

“I don’t have many, to be honest. I’m afraid I’m seen as something of an odd duck in the Shire.”

Bilbo said the words with a shrug, like they didn’t matter, like they meant nothing to him. While his family name and mellowed behavior earned him something of a suitable reputation in his later years, the Shire was still slow to forget his mother’s adventures or his own youthful antics. Always there were rumours speaking of how Bilbo was apt to go the way of Belladonna. It was the Tookish blood in him, they said. 

In all fairness, it wasn’t as though Bilbo was disliked or isolated. He had many acquaintances, hobbits he chatted with when they bumped into each other on their way to market, neighbors he’d invite over to tea after a day of working alongside in their respective gardens. But friendship never truly blossomed, and though Bilbo had more intimate company visit him from time to time, they were hardly in a position to go out gallivanting around together.

Bilbo looked up, rousing himself from his thoughts, surprised to see he now had the attention of nearly the entire Company. 

“They find _you_ odd?” Dwalin said. 

“Erm… yes?” 

Oin leaned forward in his seat. “In what manner, precisely?”

“I suppose they just think I’m a little—” Bilbo wrinkled his nose, flapped a hand through the air as he searched for the right word. “Eccentric.”

The dwarves around him frowned, trading disbelieving glances amongst themselves.

“What?” Bilbo asked.

“Just not sure if that’s the best description for you, laddie,” Balin said. The kindness in his voice, though surely not feigned, sounded condescending to Bilbo’s ears.

“Well now!” Bilbo snapped, unsure why he was so stung by their doubt but feeling put-out all the same. “I’ll have you know I’ve done plenty to earn my reputation! I—well, once as a child I decided to stay out all night in the woods without telling a single soul! Half the Shire was out looking for me by morning. It was quite the scandal it was, almost as bad as when Lobelia and I got in a row right in the middle of the street when she started in on my mother –oh, she was also a little strange, you see, people think I get it all from her side…” 

Bilbo went on and on, listing off every foolish childhood tryst he could think of, every strange little quirk that fueled his neighbours’ gossip. With each new confession the laughter of his companions grew, and there were even signs of mirth showing around the corners of Thorin’s weary eyes. Their amusement spurred him on, encouraged rather than shamed, and Bilbo was jostled with a friendly elbow when he recounted stealing Miss. Wormwood’s pies from her window sill, patted on the back when he admitted to once hiding a rabbit in his bedroom only for it chew through his pillow.

“And to tie it all off here I am now with the lot of you!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Certainly the most peculiar troop of fellows that have ever ventured past the borders of the Shire!”

“I suppose that means you’re in good company indeed, Master Baggins!” Bofur said with a wink, knocking his fist lightly against Bilbo’s shoulder. 

Bilbo blinked, swaying with the blow. It struck him then all at once, that he couldn’t remember when he last felt so comfortable being the center of attention in the midst of a crowd, when he had spoken so freely without fear of being judged.

“I… yes,” Bilbo said quietly. “I hadn't realized.” 

 

— 

 

Bilbo wakes before the ring of the morning bell, drooling onto his pillow with his legs twisted up in the sheets, restless in a way he hasn’t been since traveling on the road. His throat is dry from sleep and the pattering in his heart is too quick and light in his chest. He had gone to bed with no worries on his mind and can’t remember dreaming --doesn’t feel distressed or afraid besides. Only… agitated, as though there’s something he must attend to that he’s forgotten.

He rises, resistant to the idea of taking breakfast alone and in peace by the fire. Even after months of living in Erebor Bilbo has yet to fall into a daily routine, something that would have frustrated him to no end in the Shire but seems oddly liberating now. There are days when he leaps from bed in a rush to go off and sit in on a counsel meeting or research something for Balin in the archives, and others when he’s left to indulge in his own laziness, dining with Thorin or the others, sometimes not even bothering to rise until well-past noon.

After helping himself to a few preservatives in his pantry, Bilbo slips into a simple dwarvish tunic and wanders out into the mountain. If there is a single corridor in Erebor barred to Bilbo he has yet to find it, and when he ventures into the Royal Quarters to see if the boys are yet awake the guards do nothing more than glance down at his passing. There’s something about Fili and Kili’s company that puts Bilbo at ease, their rambunctious nature and good humour always serving as a welcome distraction from things he would rather not be thinking about. 

He finds their chambers empty but the noise filtering in through the open window is enough to draw him outside to the balcony. Fili and Kili face off against each other in the training yard down below, their hair still sleep-soft and tussled, armed with wooden swords and practice shields. Their movements are half-hearted and sluggish, spurred on only when Dwalin barks out a command from where he stands at the sidelines. Bilbo drops his elbows atop the railing, laughing quietly to himself when Fili blows out his cheeks and rolls his eyes, when Kili wrinkles up his nose and silently mouths Dwalin’s latest order.

Balin joins him not long after, wishing Bilbo a good morning as he comes to a stop at his side, seemingly unsurprised to find him there. They watch the proceedings below in a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of a struck match once Balin takes out his pipe for an early morning smoke. It’s Dwalin who notices them first, tipping up his chin, his dark eyes hooded against the growing light of the sun. He makes a gesture of greeting towards Bilbo followed by rude hand signal to his brother. Balin chuckles as he returns it in kind. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Bilbo says. “Shouldn’t the celebration be held on the twenty-seventh?”

Balin, polite fellow he is, turns his head away and exhales a long stream of smoke into wind the before answering. “We began our journey on the twenty-sixth.”

“Er, no, actually. You all shoved your way into my house and made me feed you on the twenty-sixth. You set out on the twenty-seventh.”

Balin pauses, the end of his pipe resting at the corner of his mouth.

“Hmm,” he says, tugging at his snowy beard, his brow folding in thought. “Well, it’s all planned now. Wouldn’t be worth the trouble of pushing it back.”

The festival had been Lady Dis’ idea, insisting that after long months of hard work all residents of the mountain were deserving of some fun, an opportunity to look back on and appreciate everything that’s been accomplished. Thorin had been slow to agree, relenting only after long weeks filled with arguments and debate.

 _It’s too soon,_ Thorin had confided to Bilbo one night, sitting at the end of the bed with his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, fingers in his hair, tangling the braids he was meant to be undoing. Bilbo sighed in response, stepping close to bat his hands away and take to the task himself.

 _It’s not,_ Bilbo said, setting one aglet aside and reaching for another, dragging his nails along Thorin’s scalp just for the pleasure of seeing him shudder. _You worry too much, foolish dwarf. Stop fretting over what you haven’t done and be proud of what you have._

“Here,” Balin says, lifting up a large book that’s he’s been keeping tucked beneath his arm, balanced against his hip. “I found this last night. Consider it a parting gift.”

Bilbo sputters, though why he couldn’t say. “I’m not parting just yet.”

“All the same. Perhaps it will provide some entertainment, once you set back out on the road.”

Bilbo heaves the heavy volume closer, dragging it along the stone railing. The pages beneath the leather cover have gone yellow with age, but a quick flip through the book proves the spine and binding are still in fine enough condition. 

“An old dwarvish tale,” Balin says. “Very rare, to find a westron translation of it.”

“Oh? You’re sure it’s really all right if I take it?” 

Balin snorts, sounding very much like his younger brother for a moment. “Thorin will have you named dwarf-friend soon enough, Master Baggins. No one will kick up a fuss after that.”

Bilbo swallows, his throat clicking dryly as he nods. The news should make him happy, should make him feel honoured and humbled. And it does, but it also makes something deep inside his chest ache horribly, as though his heart has been gripped tight in a clenched fist.

It was thoughts of home that had sustained Bilbo when he first set out on this adventure. The memory of his lush little garden and splendid four-poster bed, his parents portraits bathed in warm firelight from where they hung above the mantelpiece. He used to dream of the sky outside his round window, the expansive view of the Shire from Bag End’s rounded roof.

But now… now he thinks of home and remembers his wide, empty hallways, his quiet days spent alone with nothing but the company of his old books. He knows that as a boy Bag End had been filled with the smells of his mother’s cooking and his father’s harsh pipeweed, that Belladonna used to sing him to sleep and that Bungo gave him his very first map in his private study. But these moments seem almost disconnected from their surroundings, displaced and existing all on their own, as if they could have happened anywhere. 

It would have been easier had he gone away with Gandalf after the battle, before the hollow place Bag End left inside him was filled with something new. But how could Bilbo justify abandoning his friends so soon, while they were still in the midst of healing and rebuilding? He helped get them to the mountain, after all, it only seemed proper to make sure they’d prosper within it.

“Bilbo?”

Balin is frowning at him, concern pinching at the corners of his eyes. Bilbo forces a smile and bites down on his tongue, swallowing down words he doesn’t know how to say. 

 

— 

 

“I’ll vouch for him,” Bilbo said, his breath misting on the air, the bare tips of his fingers stinging with cold as he raised his mitted hand. 

Thorin stared, his cheeks glowing red from windburn, hair drifting over his shoulders in a thick wave as he turned his back to the Master the Laketown. His lips were parted, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before his expression smoothed over, mask-like in its stillness. But there was a light burning in his eyes, a flame that had been struck when he first stepped forward to claim the favour of the crowd that only brightened as Bilbo spoke on. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Thorin told him later, quiet and somber, gazing out across the dark expanse of the lake. They stood together alone at the edge of the docks, trading a pipe back and forth as the Master’s festivities raged on in the house behind them. Bilbo had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, ears ringing and his mouth tasting of honeyed wine, when he spotted Thorin hovering by the water, a lit match flickering in his hand, tilting his head in invitation when Bilbo caught his eye.

“Well of course I didn’t,” Bilbo shrugged and scratched at the back of his neck, play-acting an ease he didn’t feel. “It was nothing, really. Hardly worth mentioning.”

“No,” Thorin said. 

“No?”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

The corner of Bilbo’s mouth twitched as he looked down, trailing his fingers along the spiraling design carved into the side of the pipe, noting the rounded shape of the bowl and short stem, how small it looked in Thorin’s hand when he passed it back.

“I thought thieving was mean to be my job,” Bilbo said primly. 

“Nori gave it to me,” Thorin rumbled. “I suspect he found it on one of the Master’s guards.”

“Oh? Perhaps I should see if he can ‘find’ another. I fear I lost mine to the river.”

“The best of luck to you, tracking him down once more in that rabble.”

As if on cue a rowdy shout rose up from behind them, followed by a swell of cheers and laughter. Bilbo glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of a few dark, dwarf-shaped silhouettes moving behind the curtains at the windows.

“Now the question is: how many of them will be late to the boats in the morning?”

Bilbo looked back to Thorin, not expecting a smile so much as he was to be scoffed at. But Thorin was staring down at him instead, a strange sort of intensity marking the lines on his face. He turned his head, exhaling a plume of smoke into the wind without glancing away. 

“Erm…” Bilbo said. “Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

Bilbo lifted his brows, waiting for more, and blinked when Thorin cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“It’s occurred to me,” Thorin said. “That this—after tomorrow, there may not be another chance.”

“I… don’t think I follow? Another chance for what?”

Thorin sighed, nodding his head slightly as if coming to some private decision. He set the pipe aside on the wooden railing at his elbow, eyes flashing as he lifted his arm, fitting his palm softly against Bilbo’s cheek.

“Oh,” Bilbo croaked, his tongue feeling dry and thick in his mouth. _Oh._

Bilbo was far from an untried stripling, having invited plenty of hobbits to share his bed in the past. But to be propositioned in such a manner was strange and alarming. Such a thing would never be done in the Shire, not out in the open where any uppity passerby could see. Bilbo knew more than one story of some poor lad or lass’ reputation being ruined from a lack of discretion. Why, even his own long-standing status as a bachelor was suspicious enough without adding fuel to the fire. 

But it was difficult to remain anxious when it was Thorin standing before him, when it was his fingers tracing the shell of Bilbo’s ear. His shirtsleeves had ridden up, revealing his thick wrist, pale skin dappled in fine black hair. Bilbo played with the idea of pressing a kiss to it, of touching his thumb to Thorin’s pulse point and following a vein upwards towards the bend of his elbow, his shoulder and fluttering throat.

“We—we could be seen,” Bilbo said, unable to fully quash the need to speak out, to _warn_. 

Thorin frowned, his fingers drifting along the smooth curve of Bilbo’s jaw before falling away.

“Mm, strange folk, Men can be. So quick to take offence over matters that do not concern them.”

Thorin looked down the street, off towards the direction of the housing they’d been given for the night. 

“We could –elsewhere. Though if you don’t wish to—” 

Bilbo shook his head, heat coursing through him like liquid fire as he slipped his fingers over Thorin’s worn palm and squeezed.

 

— 

 

Bilbo stifles yawn as he enters Thorin’s chambers, lifting up the sheaf of parchment clutched in his hand. “The numbers are off.”

Thorin is settled on the couch rather than at his desk, scrolls and empty inkwells scattered over the low table sitting at his knees. He’s dressed in nothing more than worn leggings and a thin, faded tunic, fraying at the seams and unlaced at the collar.

“Numbers?”

“For the celebration,” Bilbo says. “You won’t have enough food for everyone.” 

Thorin looks up with a frown. He sets aside his own work, taking the papers from Bilbo to read them over himself, his expression turning more and more dour the further down his eyes drift, cursing beneath his breath.

“Gloin didn’t notice?”

“Well, I only came across it by accident while filing it away. Gloin must have allowed an apprentice to take care of it.”

“We can’t make up the difference without exceeding the budget,” Thorin says, rubbing at his eyes.

“Perhaps the elves—” 

Thorin snorts. 

“—Will be willing to cut you a deal? What have they been asking for in your trade talks?”

Thorin reaches across the table towards a small cluster of scrolls, picking through them. Bilbo sighs when his search comes up empty, the lovely image of his warm bed fading away from the forefront of his mind. 

“I’m checking your desk,” he says. “And then sending for supper.”

“I’ve already eaten.”

“That’s very nice for you, O King. I, however, have not.”

Thorin pauses and lifts his head, skepticism clear in the tilt of his brows.

“Not in the past few hours, at least,” Bilbo relents, leaning out the door to call for a messenger.

There are, in the end, worst ways to spend a night. Bilbo places himself next to Thorin once the food arrives, a transcription of the trade talks in one hand and a meat pie in the other. He shifts in his seat until his back is pressed against the solid line of Thorin’s arm, stretching out his legs and placing his feet over the armrest.

“What are you doing?” Thorin asks.

“I’m helping you, and I’d like to be comfortable in the meantime.”

Thorin snorts, jostles Bilbo with his elbow, and doesn’t tell him to move.

Together they quickly devise a plan, drawing up a statement that offers the elves a discount on their next shipment of moonstones should they do the same for a rush order of salted meat and grains. At Bilbo’s insistence they write a second proposal directly after, sweetening the pot with promises of choice jewels should the elves be in need of more persuasion.

“I’ll send a raven out in the morning,” Thorin says, twirling a quill idly between his fingers as he reads over their work.

Bilbo nods, content to leave the finishing details in Thorin’s hands. He swallows down another yawn, digging his heels into the armrest and pressing himself further against Thorin’s shoulder and hip. He sees no harm in relaxing for just a moment, soothed by the sound of the crackling fire and rustling paper, Thorin’s slow, even breaths. 

When Bilbo opens his eyes the room is darker than it was, bathed in shadows and a dim orange glow. Slowly, the tilted image of the hearth swims into focus, and it takes Bilbo a moment longer to understand that he’s lying on his side, stretched out over Thorin’s chest and legs. His cheek is pressed to the bare skin at Thorin’s collar, and there’s a large hand resting over his waist, dark hair caught in his mouth.

Bilbo jerks upwards, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He knows that Dwarves don’t hold the same standards as Shire folk, that no one in the mountain would blink an eye were they to walk in on them now. But still Bilbo cannot shake the feeling that he’s doing something inappropriate and foolish, something that may get him _caught_. 

“What’s wrong?” Thorin asks, breathing the words against Bilbo’s mused curls, his voice rough with sleep.

“Nothing,” Bilbo says.

His tone must not convince for Thorin begins shifting beneath him, pulling away. Something in Bilbo’s chest pulls tight and he grips at Thorin’s wrist before he’s out of reach, fumbling to stop him, keep him.

Thorin stills, humming low in his throat, like a question.

“Really,” Bilbo says. 

“Do you want to move to the bed?”

“It doesn’t seem worth the effort, unless—?”

“My legs have gone numb, just…”

Thorin must have removed his boots and socks at some point in the night. His small toes curl as he wriggles his limbs free, something Bilbo finds inexplicably endearing. One of Thorin’s legs ends up nestled against the back of the couch as the other falls off the cushion, bent at the knee and left to hang. Thorin loops an arm around Bilbo’s chest, gripping at his opposite shoulder. He tightens his hold for a brief moment, an affectionate little squeeze that makes Bilbo’s heart ache in a pleasant sort of way. Bilbo learned rather early on that dwarves had few qualms when it came to touch, but it still came as a surprise to him the first time Thorin kissed him outside the bedroom, when he asked Bilbo to spend the night as if there were no danger to it at all.

There’s a warm puff of air against the side of Bilbo’s neck. It’s followed by a fleeting touch, the dry press of chapped lips. 

“Go back to sleep,” Thorin says.

 

— 

 

“Go back to your books and your armchair.” There was blood lining the edges of Thorin’s lips, matted in his beard and climbing the cracks between his teeth. “Plant your trees.”

Bilbo shook his head. He reached out, fumbling to press his hands over the gaping wound in Thorin’s chest, shuddering at the hot rush of fluid slicking his palms. Thorin choked, a gurgled moan catching in his throat as his fingers scraped at Bilbo’s wrist.

“No,” Bilbo croaked. “No, no, no…” And above him, around him, the air filled with the sound of wings.

 

— 

 

The celebration is no small affair, beginning early and raging on into the quiet hours of the morning. It spills out from the main hall and through the market, past the open gates of Erebor. Tables are dragged outside and piled high with fresh food and malt beer, and before the sky is dark half of Dale has already appeared at their doorstep uninvited, coming up the rocky hill with baskets stuffed full of pastries and bottles of elvish wine, with paper lanterns ready to be strung up and lit. Thorin exchanges a bemused look with his sister and permits them to stay with a lazy wave of his hand, his cheeks already turning a dusky red from the drink.

True to Balin’s prediction Bilbo is named dwarf-friend before all of Erebor. Thorin tips up his chin and speaks the words just as dinner is served, eyes gleaming when they catch Bilbo’s own, his voice strong and rich and clear. Bilbo ducks down low in his seat when a cheer rises from the crowd, tankards lifting high in his honour, and he barely has time to finish his meal before he’s swept up into the commotion. His hair is ruffled, his back patted and his hand shook, and he finds himself passed about Dwarves and Men alike as they congratulate him and wish him farewell, asking what he expects of his journey back, what awaits him in the Shire.

“Oh, I doubt it’s changed much at all from how I left it,” Bilbo tells them, his smile a thin and brittle thing.

The music begins with the jittering whine of Kili’s fiddle, and Dain’s great, booming laughter is Bilbo’s only warning before an arm hooks around his waist. Dain spins him about as if he were a tyke, so quickly that the world becomes a tumbling blur to Bilbo’s eyes. For an instant he tastes a splash of sick at the back of his tongue, and when he’s finally set back down on his feet he has to steady himself against a nearby table or else be ready to embrace the floor. 

“All right, no more of that I think,” Bilbo says, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.

“Just giving you a proper send off, laddie.” 

“A simple ‘goodbye’ wouldn’t have sufficed?”

Dains offers him a wide, toothy grin along with a tall drink, insisting it will help to settle his stomach.

Bilbo takes refuge from the chaos in the company of his friends, begging a pipe off Bifur and stealing a bite of cake from Fili’s plate while he’s looking away. They’re all just as rambunctious as they were the night they elbowed their way into Bag End, spilling liquor over their boots and toasting every little thing that seems to please them, the good weather and some fine-looking dwarf that passes by, the Men of Dale and their King and—

“Bilbo Baggins!” Ori shouts.

“Oh good grief,” Bilbo grumbles, making a great show of covering his ears when the dwarves around him cheer. 

“Enjoying yourself?”

Bilbo turns to find Thorin hovering behind him, his head tilted expectantly to the side with his hands tucked neatly behind his back. 

Bilbo shrugs, angling his hand back and forth, and laughs when Thorin gifts him an unimpressed look.

“Will you walk with me?” Thorin asks, leading Bilbo back inside when he nods.

Thorin takes him up a winding staircase, to the very top of the high tower overlooking the gate. They step out onto a small, squared off balcony that’s hardly large enough to fit the two of them while standing side-by-side. The market rests below, and Bilbo spots Dis chatting to Balin at the head table, Bofur hanging off Bombur’s shoulder with a tankard in his hand. 

Thorin sets his wrists atop the railing, sloping forward as he knits his fingers together. Bilbo stares at the solid cut of his profile, his high brow and strong nose, feeling as though something intangible hangs between them, an untied string, a conversation they should have had months ago but never did. 

“It’s strange, isn’t it? To think we met a only year ago today,” Bilbo says, near desperate to break the silence. He drops his forearms over the railing, mirroring Thorin’s posture. 

Thorin hums in agreement, twisting one of the rings on his fingers, light flashing over the dark stone that’s been mounted on the band. It’s a strange gesture, fidgety and nervous, and Bilbo is happy to see it, to know Thorin is comfortable enough in his presence to express his worries in some small way.

Bilbo clears his throat. “Listen, I’ve—” 

“You should—”

They both stop. Thorin’s chin dips towards his collarbone as he laughs, a quiet, rolling sound that reminds Bilbo of his singing. 

“You first,” Bilbo says.

Thorin shakes his head. “I interrupted you.”

“Oh no, no, really I insist.”

Thorin lifts an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking. He remains stubbornly silent.

Bilbo wrinkles his nose and bumps their shoulders together, tingling with warmth when Thorin sways but doesn’t move away.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bilbo says. “About that night before we reached Beorn’s, when Kili asked me if there was anything else I missed from home. Do you remember that? I said I didn’t have many friends nor family I was close to. But you see, I—well, I have the lot of you, now, and I think it’s spoiled me terribly.”

Thorin straightens, rolling his shoulder as he looks away, tension locking his spine.

“Are you saying that you’ll miss us?”

“I’m saying that I don’t want to.”

Thorin’s breath catches. His hair whips around his face as he turns back to Bilbo, his eyes wide and very blue in the silvery light of the moon.

“I—I’ve been thinking I could stay,” Bilbo says quietly. “That is… if I’m welcomed.”

“If you’re welcomed.” Thorin whispers the words as if they hold no meaning to him, a thin line forming between his brows as he stares down at Bilbo.

“I find it strange,” he says slowly. “How well you succeed in being both astoundingly clever and exceedingly daft, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo sputters. “I’m sorry, but _you_ , of all people, are calling _me_ daft?”

Thorin grins. He takes Bilbo’s hand, brings his fingers up to his mouth for a kiss.

“Only a little,” he amends.

“I take it this means you’re open to the prospect?”

It’s a petty question, Bilbo knows, needy and pointless, but he finds he must hear the answer for himself.

Thorin cants his head, moonlight flashing over his face, glinting across the sharp points of his crown, the bejeweled cuff curling along the edge of his ear. His beard has begun to lengthen, growing thick over the passing months, and though it’s not yet long enough to hold a braid Bilbo feels almost giddy at the prospect that he’ll there to see when it is. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time now,” Thorin admits. “I was unsure how.”

Bilbo smiles, splaying his fingers, slipping them between Thorin’s own.

“Using your words may have helped.”

Thorin huffs out a laugh. He bows his head and touches their brows together, his braids swinging forward to skim along Bilbo’s collarbone, knocking softly against his jaw. 

“Cheeky little thing,” he says fondly, like it’s a compliment. “I could not risk swaying your decision. I know well enough the importance of home.”

“Thorin… I don’t—it’s not the same as—”

“You truly won’t miss it?” Thorin interrupts, sounding breathless and wary. “You won’t regret staying?”

Bilbo tilts back his head to meet Thorin’s eyes, his cheek drifting against the fur lining at his collar. It’s not as simple as that, he knows. Of course he’ll miss the Shire, of course they’ll be mornings when he’ll wake wanting nothing more than to look out on his garden, aching for the books he left behind, the familiar scent of his pantry. But then, has he ever entertained a guest in his smial that brought half as much joy to his life as the Company does? Can the warmth of his grand bed even begin to compare to that of Thorin’s arms?

Bilbo says, “There will be things I need to send for. The portraits of my parents, the quilt my mother made me, perhaps a few bulbs dug up from my garden…”

Thorin remains quiet for a long moment, his throat working, swallowing down questions he knows better than to ask. He leans in and kisses Bilbo’s face, lips touching close to the corner of his eye.

“One year,” Bilbo says again, quietly, looking down at Thorin’s broad fingers, his heavy rings and clean, squared-off nails. He feels nervous, all of a sudden, his heart fluttering in his chest like a bird taking to the sky. “That’s not very much time to know someone at all, is it?”

“Perhaps not.” Thorin’s thumb drifts over Bilbo’s knuckles, back and forth, gentle and soothing. “But I trust we’ll know each other longer still.”

Bilbo pulls in a slow deep breath, his cheeks warming as he smiles. “Yes, I suppose we will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ho boy this has been sitting on my computer for a ridiculously long time. Still not sure how I feel about it even after polishing it up, so please do share your thoughts should the need strike you.
> 
> As always, my tumblr can be found [here](http://lightshesaid.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading, lovelies.


End file.
